


Tumblr Silverflint Prompts

by Craftnarok



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Modern AUs, Polyamory, Rainy day AU, lifeguard AU, mostly silverflint, some flint/hamiltons later, tumblr prompt fills, variable ratings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7583131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craftnarok/pseuds/Craftnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of silverflint (and some flint/hamiltons) fics based on tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Malibu Sunrise'

**Author's Note:**

> So, possibly foolishly I've decided to challenge myself to answering fic prompts people have sent me on tumblr. I don't know how long it will take me to fill out all the ones I've had (17 so far guys, holy hell), but I'm quite looking forward to it. 
> 
> This is the first prompt I asked for, which made me decide to make this into a bigger challenge. Like a genius, I forgot to write down the actual, specific prompt and now I can't find it, but it was something to do with Flint being at a pool and needing all the sunscreen, while Silver works as a lifeguard. 
> 
> I don't really know what this is other than something silly and light and a little bit clichéd, but sometimes that's just what you need.
> 
> Also, because I hadn't thought up the challenge when I started this, it's a bit longer than most of the others will be. I'm aiming to write no more than about 1000 words for each, to keep it manageable, but let's be real, each one will just be as long as it wants to be.

It had been Miranda’s idea. The air was muggy and close, the sun beating down on them in a most uncomfortable and un-British way when she had suggested a trip to the outdoor swimming pool. James knew of the old lido (everybody who had spent more than five minutes in this part of London knew of _‘Britain’s largest outdoor pool! It’s been here since the 20s, you know. Did we mention that it’s Britain’s largest outdoor pool?’_ ), but he had never once felt the urge to go there. There was a perfectly nice pool at his gym that was quiet and under cover and not _‘filled with squalling brats who have probably all pissed in the water, Miranda’._ Once Miranda got an idea into her head, however, it could be nigh on impossible to stop her from following through on it; usually dragging him in tow, grumbling but only half unwilling.

Unsurprisingly, the pool was exactly as packed as James had thought it would be; screaming children running wild, parents catching hold of them for just long enough to slather them in a thick, greasy layer of sunscreen before they slipped free and shot off again to leap into the water feet first, wilfully ignorant of the screeching of the lifeguards’ whistles. Garishly coloured inflated balls of varying sizes were flying alarmingly low overhead, foam tubes and floats and bright orange armbands were clogging up the shallow end of the pool, and the smell of chlorine, heavy and acrid in the humid air, was cloying at the back of his throat. He would have felt pleasantly vindicated that his worst imaginings had proven so accurate, but he was rather preoccupied with forcing down the loud, put-upon sigh that was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

"Ugh, God, Miranda, really?" he said, well aware of the rising whine in his voice that would earn him only a raised eyebrow and an admonition for being _'a miserable sod'_ , or _'an insufferable grouch'_ , or even once or twice _'a whinging old fucker'_ (those had stung more than he would admit).

"Oh come on. Look how much fun everyone's having! The excitement's infectious, don't you think? Besides, we're here now, so you might as well make the best of it," Miranda said, fixing him with a smug smile that said she knew every response he was currently weighing up, and she had a clever retort for each and every one of them, should he care to try her.

Settling instead on letting loose that overdramatic sigh after all, James rolled his eyes and turned to make for the changing room, but he couldn’t resist throwing an arch, “Yes, I can definitely feel myself being infected by something,” over his shoulder, just to get the last word in. Never let it be said that James Flint was above childish things.

*

Once changed, James made his way to the poolside to find Miranda commandeering a pair of sun loungers close to the lifeguard's chair. He had no idea how she had managed to find one free spot, let alone two together, but he had long ago given up questioning her apparent sorcery when it came to such things. Why question that which worked to his advantage?

"I brought you a book," she said, conjuring said tome from beneath her folded towel with a flourish. The stifled smile on her face made James immediately suspicious and, on reaching for the slightly ragged-looking paperback she was holding out in his direction, he realised why. It was an old Mills and Boon style novel with tattered edges (much thumbed clearly, though he suspected not by her) and a gaudy cover featuring a well-toned and tanned hunk of a lifeguard in absurdly small red shorts. His muscles were bulging as he shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand, looking out across a golden beach to an azure ocean. James imagined he was supposed to look dashing and heroic and deep in thought, his dark hair whipping rakishly around his face, but he instead looked slightly cross-eyed and rather vacant.

"I found it in a second-hand book shop the other day and immediately thought of you," Miranda said as she settled herself delicately across the sun lounger.

"I hate you," James replied, throwing the book onto his own seat and reaching for his bottle of sunscreen.

Miranda laughed, picking up her own far more respectable looking book, and said lightly, "I know you do."

"Can't we swap?" James tried hopelessly, sweeping thick stripes of white cream up his arms and across his shoulders, his skin already feeling prickly and hot.

"No," Miranda said, not even bothering to look at him, "I need to finish this one soon to have the review written by Monday. I'm afraid it's _'Malibu Sunrise'_ or nothing."

With another sigh, James flopped down onto the sun lounger, continuing to paste himself with cream all over, right up to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t reach all of his back without help, but he was far too invested in pointedly ignoring Miranda to ask her for a hand, and he wasn’t planning on venturing out into that lukewarm, chlorinated maelstrom of splashing kids, germs, and piss any time soon. His back would be fine if he just stayed lying on it. 

*

For a good half an hour his plan worked, perspiration trickling down his neck and damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead as he gently baked in the sun, but before too long the heat began to become intolerable and he conceded to turning over. Five minutes on his front couldn’t do too much harm, pale as he was. It might even do him some good; vitamin D, and all that. Besides, he was still refusing to ask for Miranda’s help, although his reasons for doing so had progressed. What had started as annoyance at the stupid book and the looks it was likely to garner, and her evident delight at knowing just how to push his buttons for her own amusement, had shifted to intense irritation that he was now, against his will and better judgement, invested in the story. He didn’t _want_ to be wondering when the dashing lifeguard Miguel Rodrigues was going to notice just how attractive and underappreciated Miss Sara Monroe was and bloody well do something about it, but god help him he was.

About one chapter and definitely longer than five minutes later, his musings on the manifold attractions of a passionate holiday romance with the lovely Miguel were rudely interrupted.

“Your back’s burning.”

Craning his neck around to find the owner of the voice, James saw that it was one of the lifeguards, down from his chair and lounging against the ladder, arms folded across his chest. Disturbingly, he bore more than a slight resemblance to the illustration of handsome Miguel on the cover of James’s book: thick dark hair tied loosely back, a few curls escaping the pony tail in a manner too artful to look convincingly accidental, and eyes a shockingly bright blue. Unlike the unfortunate illustrated Miguel, however, his eyes were blessedly uncrossed and looked distinctly more keen and mischievous than vacant.  

“Oh. I couldn’t really reach with the sunscreen. It’s fine,” James said, his tone dismissive, as he sat up and turned around, trying desperately hard not to allow his eyes to rake down the lifeguard’s muscular arms and tight-fitting t-shirt. That shade of canary yellow really ought to have looked quite unflattering, but somehow it only served to enhance the warm-looking tan of the man’s skin and those very bright eyes.

“You couldn’t ask your wife for help?” the lifeguard said, arching an eyebrow in the direction of Miranda’s seat, which she had vacated some five minutes earlier saying something vague about finding drinks. How he could have used her help now. She was the conversationalist and, irritatingly, the lifeguard looked as though he fully intended on continuing this unprompted little chat, despite James being a perfect stranger to him.

“She’s not my wife,” James replied, settling back once more and pointedly lowering his gaze to his book, which had suddenly become a very convenient distraction.

“Oh. Girlfriend then?” the lifeguard said, either oblivious to James’s efforts to disengage him or simply unphased by them.

“No,” James said, lifting the book higher and turning a page. The effort of holding back a huff and an accompanying eye roll was becoming almost physically painful.

There was a long pause, and he almost had time to feel relief at the conversation having ended, but then, “ _Ah_. Have a thing for lifeguards, do you?”

James spluttered. _“Excuse me?”_

“The book,” the lifeguard said, gesturing towards the cover which was now fully visible to him. “Interesting choice. Those shorts look impractical though; they’re verging on budgie smuggler territory really. I wouldn’t want to be worrying about accidentally flashing a whole beach while doing CPR. I imagine it’d be difficult to focus on counting chest compressions with your bollocks hanging out. Pleasantly breezy, perhaps, but distracting.”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, James looked up wide-eyed, his eyebrows making a break for his hairline. The shit-eating grin on the lifeguard’s face suggested that that was exactly the reaction he’d been aiming for.

“The book wasn’t my choice,” James said defensively. “It was something of a joke, and I think I’m only just starting to fully understand the punchline.”

The lifeguard snorted, and his gaze swept unmistakeably down the length of James’s body. Was he not already flushed from the heat, he would have worried about the blush he could feel spreading across his cheeks. It made his skin tingle and he struggled not to fidget.

“Shouldn’t you be, you know, guarding lives, rather than talking to me?” James said, slightly desperately.

“I’m on a break,” the lifeguard replied with a cheerful smile.

“Wonderful,” James muttered, finally giving in and closing the book around his finger to mark his place.

“Isn’t it?” he said brightly. “So, tell me about the budgie smuggling hero of the book that definitely wasn’t your choice, but for some reason you can’t tear your eyes away from.”

*

Some ten minutes later James had to concede that the lifeguard actually made for quite enjoyable company after all. He was quick and funny and not exactly hard on the eyes, and he turned out to be surprisingly well-read and well-travelled. Just when James had started to warm to him, however, he was called away to go back to work, and James was left with only the suddenly rather disappointing fictional Miguel for company.

Not long after, when James had all but discarded the book and settled for trying to watch the lifeguard as surreptitiously as possible, Miranda finally reappeared, two glasses of something that looked wonderfully cold and distinctly alcoholic in hand.

“Isn’t this place supposed to be alcohol-free? It’s a public pool. Where on earth did you get those?” James asked, reaching out for a glass.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” was all she said in reply.

“I got talked to by a lifeguard while you were gone,” he said accusingly, taking a sip of his drink and relishing the icy coolness of it. His cheeks still felt uncomfortably hot, and he didn’t want to consider the exact shade of beetroot he might have been for the duration of his previous conversation.

“How terrible for you,” Miranda said with a laugh. “I noticed. Why do you think I took so long to get back? I wasn’t going to interrupt and give you an excuse to stop talking to him. He was very good looking. Did you get his phone number?”

James coughed into his glass. “Why would I have got his phone number? Who said anything about...we were just talking. What makes you think he’d even want to give me his number anyway?”

“So you asked for it and he said no?” Miranda said.

“No,” said James.

“You asked for it and he said yes?” she said.

“ _No,_ ” he said.

“But you would want it?” she pushed.

“Jesus Christ,” James said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does it matter? He’s gone back to work now; the moment's passed. By the way, how did you manage to get a book with his lookalike on the cover? Are you actually a witch?”

Miranda laughed again. “Coincidence,” she said, sipping delicately at her own drink and looking thoughtfully out across the pool to where the lifeguard now stood on the other side.

“Are you quite sure about that?” James asked.

“Quite sure,” she said. “Well, _finding the book_ was a happy coincidence. As for the lifeguard himself…Thomas and I came here last week and watched him spend a good ten minutes staring at the arse of a redheaded someone who wasn’t half as handsome as you. I thought it was worth trying to get you within talking distance of him. He is really very attractive. Didn’t you even get his name?”

James groaned loudly, lying back on the sun lounger with an arm thrown over his eyes. “You are just so…” he said, trailing off with a shake of his head.

“Wonderful? Thoughtful? Cunning?” Miranda said.

“Ridiculous,” James concluded.

“Yes, I know. Don't pretend you don't love it though,” she said.   

James rolled his eyes, but he smiled before he downed the rest of his drink and stood up.

“I’m going to burn to a crisp if I stay out here much longer,” he said, and Miranda nodded and followed suit.

James held _‘Malibu Sunrise’_ out in her direction and she took it from him with a smile. The fates of the dashing Miguel and the underappreciated Sara seemed far less interesting to him now. They were bound to get a happy ending anyway. They always did, the people in those sorts of stories. It was too unrealistic, and he found it strangely depressing. With one last quick glance over his shoulder towards the other side of the pool, where he could see the lifeguard telling off a group of sheepish looking children, James headed towards the changing rooms to get ready to go home.

*

Late that evening, as he sat in front of his television, James’s phone buzzed with a message from a number that he didn’t recognise.

**_‘His cock was insistent now, like the pulse of the never-ending tide against the reef. He lifted her up and laid her back against the IKEA bed, her legs spread wide eagerly, tresses splayed as starfish against his pillow.’_ **

_What the fuck?_ James frowned at his phone, reading the number again; he definitely didn’t know it. Just as he was considering typing it into google to see whether that would give him any clues as to its owner, a second message arrived.

**_‘This writing is truly appalling, you know. I don’t believe this Miguel has had any sort of formal training. Your not-wife gave me your copy of Fifty Shades of Bad Erotica with your number written inside the cover and a note saying I should text you. So this is me texting you. Hello.’_ **

Oh. James couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face as he read the message. _Bloody Miranda._ She would be insufferably smug once she found out that her plan had worked. Thomas too, probably. He might look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he was bound to have had a hand in plotting this. He wondered idly how long he could delay telling them.

His phone buzzed a third time.

**_‘I’m John, by the way.’_ **

He smiled again.

**_‘Hello, John. I’m James.’_ **


	2. Without The Rain, There Would Be No Rainbow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Silver/Flint -modern rainy day AU. There is a storm outside,rain and winds,thunder and lightning-but it is warm and dry inside and cozy in front of the fireplace.
> 
> In this one Silver is an archaeologist and thunder and lightning and driving rain send him home early one day. James is already there. This ensues. <3
> 
> This chapter is explicit, just fyi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this might be kind of stupid and also a bit weird. I honestly can’t tell any more and I can't bear to re-read it again (they should probably just carve ‘I don’t know what the fuck happened’ onto my gravestone, because it encompasses my entire life). You know that bit at the end of the first Indiana Jones where the Ark of the Covenant gets locked up in a crate by ‘top men’ and stored away in a warehouse full of other secret artefacts? That’s where the stupid little sort-of-kink in this fic should really have gone, but the mental image made me happy, so fuck it, you’re getting it anyway. People were talking about wanting more laughter and banter during silverflint sex, so I kind of went hard with that. Also lol at me saying ‘~1000 words per prompt’; I fell at the first hurdle. I wouldn’t even get a gold star for trying. This is about 4.5k of absurdity. (My intros are getting longer as well…I need to learn to button it. Would you believe I'm really quiet in real life?)

Just as a particularly loud and ominous rumble of thunder rattled the kitchen window, through which James was watching the torrential rain hammering against the back garden, he heard the front door slam, followed by the familiar sound of a rucksack hitting the tiled floor and keys landing on the hall table.

“You’re home early,” he called.

“Yes,” came the reply. “It’s fucking horrible out there. We got rained off site and I decided that I- _shitting bollocks!”_

There came a sudden loud clatter from the hallway, and as James stuck his head around the doorframe to look he saw John sitting sprawled on the floor, midway through wrestling off his sodden and mud-caked boots, a filthy handprint trailing down the radiator where he had tried to catch himself as he’d fallen on his arse. He looked pathetically bedraggled, and more than a little tragic, but James refrained from commenting, turning instead to fetch a damp cloth to clean the radiator and a freshly washed towel, still warm from the tumble dryer.

When he got out into the hallway, John was sliding the toes of his boots under the radiator, wearing an expression of revulsion as he poked them along the floor with one finger, his other hand holding his dripping socks out at arm’s length.  

“We got rained off site,” he said again as he draped his socks over his boots and started peeling his coat off. “It was turning into a quagmire and it wasn’t really safe anymore. Standing in the middle of an open field with big metal tools is just asking to get hit by lightning, so we called it a day.”

“Probably wise,” James said, wiping the smear of mud off the radiator before holding out his hand and pulling John to his feet.  

“Mhm. By the time we’d packed up I’d decided that I was definitely going to ‘work from home’ for the rest of the day,” John said, hanging his coat on a hook and wiping dripping strands of hair out of his face, his fingers leaving gritty trails of dirt on his forehead. “There’s no way I was going to go and sit in a puddle in a freezing portacabin. I need a very hot shower and dry clothes. And tea. No, not tea, _wine_.”

He made to step forward and take the towel James was still holding, but James swiftly tucked it out of reach behind his back, shaking his head.

“Nope,” he said, “strip. I’m not having you trailing mud all the way up the stairs. Your trousers are filthy.”

It was true. For a good six inches up from the hems, as well as on both knees, his trousers were a slimy grey mess, and there were lattices of finger-width stripes of dirt in matching colours on both thighs where he had spent all day wiping his hands. He looked more like he had been spelunking than excavating.

John sighed, but moved to obey, first pulling his damp jumper and t-shirt over his head in one go, wiping his hands on the inside of the t-shirt as he passed it over, much to James’s disgust (his disapproving tut was received with a raised eyebrow but no comment), and then working on his trousers, grimacing as the cold, wet fabric clung to his skin as he pulled them off. He handed them over with a shiver, goosebumps pricking up all over his damp skin, and he reached out for the towel again, sighing when he felt how warm it was and clutching it to his chest.

“Boxers?” James said.

“Oh for god’s sake…” John grumbled, wriggling said item down over his hips until they dropped to the floor and then flicking them up into the air with one foot. James caught them deftly, barely containing a smirk.

“You just want me naked,” John said, wrapping the towel around his waist.

“What a scandalous suggestion,” James replied airily, leaning forwards for a quick kiss and then scowling as several fat drops of ice cold water shook free of John’s hair and onto his arms. “I’ll get the fire going,” he said, wiping them off and heading back towards the kitchen.

“And the wine,” John said.

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, you lush,” James said over his shoulder.

“ _Wine,_ ” John repeated loudly. “If I’m going to die of pneumonia then I want to be somewhere between nicely tipsy and utterly wankered when it takes me out. I’m not dying sober.”

 ***

James was just getting settled in front of the fire, the rain still lashing down outside, when John reappeared, hair damp but clean, wearing a pair of overly large and offensively bright red jogging bottoms (James had pleaded with him not to buy them) and an expensive green V-neck cashmere jumper that belonged to James. John’s fashion sense could be described at best as ‘quirky’, but James had worked out a long time ago that the louder his protestations at the more out-there combinations, the more effort he put into choosing clothes that would get a reaction. It was a form of attention seeking that was at once both intensely irritating and strangely endearing. Sometimes, despite knowing better, James just couldn’t help but fall for the trap.

“Interesting choice,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that my jumper?”

“Yes it is and it’s very comfortable. I like it.” John smirked as he took the wine glass James was proffering and sat beside him on the sofa.

“It looks ridiculous with those jogging bottoms, you know,” James said, and he silently cursed himself for being unable to resist taking the bait as John’s grin grew wider and more mischievous.

“I don’t care,” he said. “It’s warm and cosy.”

“You look like a homeless Christmas elf,” James said, shaking his head, knowing that he was only furthering the likelihood of John choosing to wear the same combination out in public one day, just to embarrass him. The man had no shame.

“Well then season’s greetings to you and suck it up, because I’m not taking it off. Not without a much friendlier inducement than that anyway. Budge up,” John said, shoving James in the side so that he could pull a blanket out from behind him. Draping his legs over James’s lap, he laid the blanket across both of them, just his feet sticking out at the end, his toes wiggling.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” James muttered, grabbing one foot and raising it up to look at the abomination that was covering it. Thick woollen rainbow socks, the horizontal stripes an eye-searing array of neon-bright colours. “Where the fuck did you even get these? Did you mug a twelve year old girl? You know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“Pretty nifty aren’t they?” John said, wiggling his toes again for emphasis and sipping his wine innocently.

“I’m embarrassed to be associated with you,” James said, but he gave John’s foot a fond squeeze as he tucked it under the blanket, leaning forwards to reach for his own wineglass.

“How was your day, apart from wet?” he said.

“Damp, soggy, waterlogged… _moist_ ,” John replied. “How was your day?”

“Warm, dry, and incredibly cosy, I’m afraid; it was a real struggle to endure,” James said.

“Poor you,” said John. “You’re a real trooper.”

A bright flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the living room, followed quickly by a booming crash of thunder, and the lights flickered overhead.

“Candles might be a good idea before we lose the power completely and have to fumble round in the dark,” John said, half turning to look out of the window at the driving rain and the heavy purple clouds, which were showing no signs of moving on any time soon.

“Last time I checked you were quite the fan of fumbling round in the dark,” James said, lifting John’s legs up to slide out from underneath them.

“Oh, how witty,” John replied, settling himself back comfortably. “Very droll, James. While that’s quite true, on this occasion I’m mostly just trying to spare myself the suffering of listening to you bitching in the dark while you scrabble around and stub your toes.”

James glowered at him, saying nothing, but he headed off into the kitchen anyway, reappearing soon after with candles and matches and the rest of the bottle of wine, plus another unopened one.

“Just the necessities then,” John said, already reaching out for the open bottle to top up his glass. “I like the way you think.”

“I doubt my liver will like it much come tomorrow, but I have to find some sort of coping mechanism for living with you,” James replied, flopping down onto John’s blanket-covered, rainbow-clad feet and snorting into his wineglass at the less than manly yelp it elicited. 

                      ***                                    

 Around an hour later the storm was still showing no signs of abating; the wind only seemed to have picked up and the window panes were rattling in a rather alarming way, shuddering harder with every roll and crack of thunder. The roar of the wind in the chimney made the fire splutter and blaze in turns, and along with the candles it offered a warm and comforting flickering light. At some point the electricity had finally given up the ghost, as it always did in such weather (James had hand-written and posted more than one strongly worded letter about its unreliability, for which John had teased him relentlessly and offered to buy him a cane to brandish next time). They had lit candles around the room and settled on the floor closer to the fire, their backs against the front of the sofa. The wine too, James had to admit, had been a good idea, despite the early hour. They had polished off the first bottle, and were now a good quarter of the way down the second. He was feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy, and judging by the way that John was slowly but surely draping himself further across him, he was feeling similarly content.

“You know…” John drawled, after some time spent in comfortable silence, “it’s all very atmospheric, this firelight. Romantic, you might even call it.”

“Yes, I suppose you might,” James replied.

“And that storm’s so noisy it could drown out all sorts; loud moaning, name calling, rhythmically creaking furniture, those sorts of things,” he said. “Just as some examples,” he added, sitting up a little to look at James and waggle his eyebrows suggestively.

James smirked, draining his glass and putting it to one side.

“I bet we could get up to all sorts without that miserable old goat next door complaining again. Unless he actually does spend his evenings with a glass pressed to the wall and his hand down his pants having a guilty wank, which I’m not entirely convinced that he doesn’t,” John said.

James grimaced. “Could you maybe not talk about Mr bloody Wilson wanking while you’re making a piss poor attempt at seducing me? Nothing’s guaranteed to turn me off faster,” he said.

“Sorry,” John said, grinning and running a hand through his hair to push it back out of his face. In the warmth from the fire it had mostly dried, coiling up into thick, soft looking curls, and James couldn’t resist reaching out to brush his fingers through it. John closed his eyes as James’s fingertips rubbed along his scalp, from his temple to the nape of his neck where the hair was still a little damp. He reached out blindly to put his glass down, but James plucked it from his grasp before he could tip wine all over the carpet, draining it himself and setting it on the coffee table, all the while his fingers gently scratching the back of John’s head.   

Taking advantage of the fact that his eyes were still closed, as well as his mouth (with that being the rarer occurrence), James took the opportunity to spend a moment drinking in the sight of him. His skin looked golden in the firelight; warm and smooth and so very soft where James stroked his thumb down the side of his neck. His eyelashes were long and dark where they fanned out above his slightly flushed cheeks, and James felt compelled to lean in and kiss his eyelids one at a time, first the left, then the right, John sighing and reaching out to catch hold of his hip as he did so. James’s hand was still twisting and stroking through his hair, and he brought the other up to rest on his shoulder, his thumb tracing the hard line of his collarbone. Though they were all but the same height, James was broader and so his jumper sat loose on John’s frame, sliding sideways until it was almost falling off his shoulder. Somehow, in the soft orange light of the fire, this simple piece of casual dishevelment was utterly stunning; it revealed a wide expanse of skin, with a pool of deep shadow cast in the hollow behind his collarbone and the lines of his muscles thrown into sharp relief. James traced the groove between his pecs, tugging gently on the neck of the jumper to pull it just a little lower. He could have sat and marvelled at him for hours, he thought, just looking and touching and absorbing every detail.

“You’re thinking daft, soft things,” John murmured, opening his eyes again and smiling, “I can tell.”

James smiled back at him, leaning in for a proper kiss before he said, “You’re a mind reader now, are you?”

John hummed an affirmative. “You were thinking about just how very lucky you are to have me, which is true, by the way, and how much better this jumper looks on me than it does on you,” he said.

James narrowed his eyes. “ _You’re_ lucky I put up with you.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said, watching his face with a cocky smile as he shuffled closer on his knees and slowly untucked James’s shirt, insinuating his hands beneath it, thumbs stroking the soft skin of his stomach. “I was right about the jumper though, wasn’t I?”

“You’re a pain in the arse,” James said, matching John’s stance on his knees, and he surged forwards to kiss him again before he could try to get the last word in, as he always did. It would only have been the predictable joke anyway.

Finally disentangling his hand from John’s curls, James pulled his jumper off over his head, breaking the kiss for only as long as he absolutely had to. John’s mouth was hot and wet and keen, and his tongue tasted of wine. His hands were eagerly undoing the buttons on James’s shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, raking his fingernails down his arms as it went, and James shuddered at the feeling, his hands finding John’s hips and pulling them flush against one another, skin to skin. The combination of the wine and the lack of air was making James’s head swim, and giving John’s bottom lip a last hard suck, he pulled back just a little to catch his breath, pressing their foreheads together as he panted, feeling the echoing huffs of John’s breaths on his lips.

“Get on the sofa,” he said, squeezing John’s hips and rocking back onto his heels to watch him get up.

As soon as he was seated, James reached out and hooked his fingers behind his waistband, tugging the suddenly far more attractive red jogging bottoms downwards, while John lifted his hips slightly to help slide them off. There was a glint in his eyes as James realised he wasn’t wearing any underwear beneath them, and he ran a hand through James’s hair when he leant forwards to place a wet, open-mouthed kiss high up inside one of his thighs.

As he was pulling the fabric down over his knees, however, James paused, before removing the jogging bottoms completely, tossing them to one side, and sitting back on his heels again, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head.

"Oh my god. Thigh-highs? Really?" he said, staring with renewed judgement at the rainbow socks, which stretched past John’s knees, rumpling up just above them.

John laughed, lounging back against the cushions and looking entirely at ease with the fact that he was half hard and utterly naked but for said socks. "I told you they were nifty,” he said. “Wait, no, don't take them off!"

James paused with the right sock crumpled around John’s calf and looked up. "We are not fucking while you wear thigh-high, rainbow-striped socks," he said.

John tutted. "And why not? They're warm and cosy and I don't want my legs to get cold. Don't be heartless. Besides,” he said, resting his arms across the back of the sofa and lifting his feet onto James’s lap, rubbing them up the length of his thighs, “they make me happy.”

"Yes, well, simple pleasures for simple minds,” said James, taking hold of both feet and running his fingertips along the soles, John buckling at the sensation and pulling them free. “You might actually be the weirdest person I've ever met, you know,” James added fondly.

"Perhaps, but we all have our little foibles, don't we,” said John, risking returning his feet to James’s thighs. “At least I'm not a cold-hearted sock-fascist like you."

"You're a tit," James replied, but he relented, pulling the sock back up above John’s knee and getting to his feet. Undoing his jeans, he slipped out of both them and his underwear and climbed up onto the sofa, straddling John’s lap and putting a hand on the middle of his chest, pushing him back against the cushions where he landed with a soft _‘oof’_ and a wide smile.

“You’re leaving your socks on too then?” John said, sliding his hands up James’s thighs and peering round them at his feet. “How very impressionable you are.”

Weaving his fingers back into his hair, James settled for sighing and kissing him again in lieu of a reply, swallowing John’s laughter, and rolling his hips as he did so. He was rewarded by a loud moan and hands on his arse, pulling him down as John pushed upwards in return. The room was filled with the sounds of the rain hammering against the window panes, and the howling of the wind, and the crackling of the fire, but it faded to indistinct white noise as James pressed harder against John, his hands full of warm curls, and a hot, insistent tongue in his mouth. His ears were focused instead on the slick wet sounds of their lips moving together, the gentle creaking of the sofa, the soft brush of skin sliding on skin, and John's low moans.

After a few long minutes, John’s hands against his chest pushed him gently backwards, and James broke away breathing hard.

"I want to lie down," John said. “I want you properly on top of me.”

James shifted back, standing up briefly to let him lie across the full length of the sofa, before crawling on top of him, sliding between John’s legs and leaning up on his elbows to look down at him. With a smile he gave his hips a slow, deliberate roll, watching John's face as his eyes closed and his lips parted, his hands sliding up James’s back and into his hair, his tight grip just the right side of painful. His palms were calloused and rough from his work, and James thought he would never tire of the way they felt against his skin. John lifted his legs and wrapped them around him, hooking his ankles together, and James shivered at the feeling of those ridiculous socks dragging up the backs of his legs. The wool felt just a little rough, and the contrast with the softness of John’s thighs made James’s skin tingle. Maybe they hadn’t been such a stupid idea after all.

Leaning down, he latched his mouth onto the skin below his ear, sucking a mark into it as he rolled his hips again and sank his fingers into his hair. John keened, tilting his head to the side and tightening the grip of his legs, pushing his hips up to meet James’s every answering downwards roll. James tugged on his hair as John’s hands dragged down his back, nails scratching all the way, pulling him closer still and moaning softly at every rock of his hips. They were small breathy sounds right at the back of his throat, barely more than sighs, and good as they sounded James wanted to hear something far louder and more wanton.

Unfastening his lips from John’s neck, he kissed his way down to his collarbone, grazing it with his teeth, and said, “I could’ve sworn you said something about the storm being the perfect cover for all sorts of noises. I hope you’re not holding back on me. Feel free to moan as loudly as you like.” He looked up and raised an eyebrow.

John looked down at him. “And when do I ever hold back?” he said, sliding his fingers back into James’s hair and combing it out of his eyes. “You want me to moan louder? Make me.”

James grinned, shifting up to kiss him, before sliding down his body, mouth on him all the way. He hooked John’s legs over his shoulders, running his hands up the backs of his thighs lightly enough to tickle, and then took him into his mouth. 

John’s hands didn’t leave his hair once as he sucked him, combing and tugging it and brushing it up out of the way so that he had a clear view as he watched. James could feel his thighs tensing against his shoulders. He let the hand that wasn’t occupied with helping his mouth wander across John’s skin, scratching down his side so that the muscles in his stomach twitched, or stroking up the back of his thigh, thumb almost but not quite pushing inside him as he reached the very top, making his breath hitch. It was, as it happened, very easy to have John making more noise. He lay with his mouth slightly open, lips wet from his tongue, alternating between tipping his head forwards to watch what James was doing and having to throw it back against the sofa when James looked up and made eye contact with him. His desperate, moaning litany of _‘James’_ and _‘please’_ was growing louder by the second, and his tight grip on James’s hair made his scalp prickle. James pulled back for a moment to swallow and wipe some of the saliva from his beard, but before he could return to the task John put a hand under his chin and tilted his head up.

“Wait, stop,” he said, breathing heavily. “I want us to come together.”

James huffed a laugh. “You’re such a sap,” he said. “How often does that even work anyway?”

“I don’t care. Get back up here,” John replied, sliding his legs off James’s shoulders and pulling at him with insistent hands.

“This is a terrible idea,” James said, crawling back up to hover over him. “If we make a mess of the sofa then I’m blaming you.”

John hooked his arms behind James’s neck, tugging him down closer. “Blame whoever you like,” he said, “just stop talking and finish the job first.”

“’Stop talking’? Says the man who-”

 _“Oh my god, James, just fucking kiss me!”_ John said, pulling him down so that their bodies were flush again and kissing him hard.

James laughed into his mouth, and he slid a hand between them and wrapped it around both of their cocks, John’s still spit-slick and sliding easily against his skin. John was far closer to the edge than he was, and it only took a dozen or so strokes of James’s hand before he was coming between them, moaning his name into his mouth. Stroking faster, John whispering filth into his mouth all the while, James worked himself towards the edge, tipping over it with a loud cry as rough hands slid up his back and twisted his hair hard.

Pressing a final wet kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, James rolled over onto his back, panting and wedging himself between John’s side and the sofa cushions. The rain was still driving beyond the window, but he thought maybe it sounded like the storm was starting to quieten, finally having blown itself out. He closed his eyes briefly, his head still swimming a little from the wine, but he opened them again when he felt John leaning away from him and reaching for the floor, coming back up with James’s shirt and using it to wipe his stomach clean.

“No! Oh, for fuck’s…I hate you,” James said, throwing his arm over his face and shaking his head as John reached over and wiped his stomach as well.

John snorted, throwing the shirt back onto the floor and reaching down to hitch his socks up from where they had slid down below his knees. “It was destined for the wash anyway,” he said, crossing his ankles and propping his feet up on the arm of the sofa. “Don’t be such a grandma.”

“You’re an animal,” James said, but as John’s hand found his he weaved their fingers together and squeezed.

“I still feel kind of drunk,” John said, frowning at the ceiling. “We should probably make some food.”

“Power’s still out. The oven won’t work,” said James.

“Oh yeah. Bugger. Shall we drown a delivery driver then?” John said, turning his head to face him. “Pizza?”

James nodded. “Pizza, but if you order another abomination with pineapple, anchovies, _and_ chillies on it all at the same time then I’m divorcing you,” he said.

“ _Oooh, really?!”_ John said, widening his eyes. “Is that a promise? Don’t tempt me, James. You’re a pizza-tyrant as well as a sock-fascist.”

“And you’re an idiot. Shut the fuck up and go and find a phone,” James said, but he slid a hand behind John’s head and pulled him into a lingering kiss to soften the words. “You really should ‘work from home’ more often.”

 


	3. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two early mornings, one in London, one in Nassau, where Miranda contemplates her relationships with James and Thomas, James is soft and happy, and Thomas is an irrepressible force for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John Cleese voice* And now for something completely different. Alright sea poodles, let’s try something else. I’ve never written a J/T/M ot3 fic before, partly because I’ve always found them kind of intimidatingly sacred and I wouldn’t want to do it wrong, but also because my headcanons regarding their relationship are pretty specific and not necessarily all fluffy (I don’t honestly think it was that great for Miranda a lot of the time). I desperately hope this does them justice and is enjoyable despite that. Also something of an apology: I really tried to keep this light-hearted and ot3-ish (oh my god, did I try!), but like I said, I don’t see their relationship as having been entirely perfect or fluffy, so some mild angst crept in, and then I wanted a Nassau bit too, which meant some sad post-Thomas stuff. I’m soooorry! It's only a few angsty thoughts though. Also, sorry it took so damn long to finish this one; for some reason it fought me all the way. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I really just want to get it posted now, rather than messing with it for even longer. (I wonder how long my introductions can get before people give up reading them? I could write anything here…)

When Miranda awoke with a start, the blankets twisted around her, there was a sharp chill in the air that pinched her cheeks and made her feet feel leaden and stiff. The fire in her room had long since gone out, the dark grate full of cold ash, and from what she could see of the sky around the edges of her curtains it seemed the weak winter sun was still hours below the horizon. She considered for a moment fetching another blanket from her closet, or finding her dressing gown and burrowing back under the covers with it wrapped around her. What she would really prefer though, she thought suddenly, was the warmth of another body pressed against her. It wasn’t so unusual for her to seek out Thomas’s company in bed, though it was usually in the evenings or the mornings, rather than in the freezing dead of the night, but she was fully aware that James had not left their house the evening before, and to seek out a bed already occupied by two was unusual, even for them.

It was a strange and delicate balance, dancing this three-partnered Minuet of theirs; at once being free of the need for secrecy or hiding, whilst also necessitating a degree of extra care in order to see that no toes were stepped upon. They were both one triumvirate and three distinct pairs, and there was a time and a place for each to be allowed to flourish and to breathe. However, now that she had thought of another warm bed and even warmer company she could not shake the thought. There was no blanket or quilt in the world that was cosy enough to compete with that. Besides, a simple ear at the door would be enough to tell her if her presence would be an interruption.

With a shiver she slid out from her bed, wrapping herself in a dressing gown and lighting a candle. The floor only cooled her feet further, and as she left her room and padded down the dark hallway she skipped from rug to rug, avoiding the cool wood and flexing her toes to try to force warm blood to reach them. Turning a corner she jumped as she came face to face with a chamber maid, dustpan and brush in hand; working her way through the rooms preparing the fireplaces for the day ahead, no doubt. The morning must not be quite so far away as she had thought. She smiled at the girl who offered a shy smile in return as she hurried to curtsey and stood aside to let Miranda pass, before hurrying away to continue her work. Miranda knew the servants talked; they were bound to, of course, but they were well-paid and well-treated and that seemed to be enough to earn their discretion and loyalty. Still, sometimes she worried. She knew how these things so often went. Many a person of high status found themselves faced with whispers and rumours, which they swore up and down were baseless - swore with an urgency which did nothing but add credence to the stories – and wondered how on earth such knowledge had seeped into the world beyond their front door. They wondered about their family, about their friends, about people who might have reason to want to see them shamed, but they so often forgot that their homes were filled with dozens of servants, paid no more mind than the furniture, who saw everything and knew more, and were not kept contented enough to ensure sealed lips and still tongues.

The details of the exploits which occasionally went on under their roof were, she hoped, at least somewhat vague to all but herself and Thomas and whomever else they might have invited to share in them. However, she knew better than to assume that those who served them were stupid or unobservant. To work in a house where one was barred from entering the Lord or Lady’s bedrooms unless explicitly permitted, not even the lady’s maid or the gentleman’s valet, could only fuel curiosity and speculation. Then there was the propensity of the Lord and Lady for walking the corridors in the dead of night, and not always unaccompanied. Miranda only hoped that the gossip amongst the servants was the same as that which spread beyond these four walls, the same that she had helped to perpetuate: that she was a woman of loose morals and Thomas a cuckold, a man so blinded by his own mad idealism that he could not see the scandalous indiscretions of his wife, though they were plain as the nose on his face. Or that perhaps he knew and was somehow unperturbed by the thought; that perhaps he was in fact impotent, made a eunuch by some dreadful, undisclosed childhood accident, and so had neither the desire nor the capacity to warm the marriage bed as he ought. That particular story had given her and Thomas many weeks of amusement, and she had been hard pressed not to fan its flames just to see how far it would spread. (A hint in a letter from an acquaintance in Edinburgh had somewhat doused her amusement and added a touch of alarm. They were fodder for gossip for _four hundred miles_?)

This time, though, this… _situation_ with James; it felt different. Thomas was so very in love with him, that much was clear to her, and it clouded his judgement and made him careless of watching eyes. So Miranda had taken a step back, just a little; become eyes and ears for both him and James, as they blinded and deafened themselves to the world, lost in one another. She was happy to do it, as she was always happy to accept the whispers and the side-glances, which washed in and out like the tides, sometimes loud and close and overwhelming, but always receding again eventually. She accepted those which rightfully belonged to her and those which did not; as far as the world was concerned, all of the men who had snuck from this house, before the unforgiving light of dawn could illuminate their shame, had first retrieved their clothes from the floor of _her_ bedchamber. However, with Thomas’s gaze so fixed on James, and vice versa, she felt an isolation which she had not encountered before. Though she worked hard to repress it, there was a small, mean part of her that stumbled against an unpleasant grain of bitterness, chaffing like sand between her toes. She hated that she could feel even the smallest ounce of jealousy towards her lover, to the man whom _she_ had first brought into this home for reasons beyond the proper, for drawing away the gaze of her husband, who had always been so uncommonly generous with his love. It was she who had bid James cast aside his shame, and cast it aside he had. The bigger, better part of her remained glad for him, but gladness alone was not enough to warm her through the nights.

And so she found herself at Thomas’s door in search of warmth, the light of the candle in her hand pitifully dwarfed by the pressing blackness of the cold hallway. She lifted a hand and laid it against the cool wood, leaning in and pressing her ear above it, listening for any sound beyond the threshold. She held her breath, listening intently, and beyond the thick wood she was sure that she could hear murmuring voices: the sound of gentle conversation. She slid her hand down to the door knob and twisted, pushing forwards flush with the door and peering around it, her candle held out behind her in the corridor to allow her eyes to adjust to the low light of the bedroom.

“Miranda?”

Thomas’s voice. She could just make out his silhouette, sitting up a little against the pillows, and at his side James, curled around him, head on his shoulder. Bringing the candle into the room she closed the door behind her and made her way over to the bed, shielding the flame with her hand as both Thomas and James squinted at its bright intrusion.

“May I join you?” she murmured.

“Of course,” Thomas replied, pulling back the covers at his side in invitation. “Always.”

Miranda set the candle down on the bedside table, pausing for a moment before leaning down to blow it out, and shrugging out of her dressing gown. Climbing onto the bed she situated herself against Thomas’s side, mirroring James’s pose, Thomas’s arm wrapping around her to pull her close and tucking the covers in tight behind her. In the darkness to which her eyes were still adjusting she could just make out James’s outline, close in front of her and unmoved from Thomas’s other side. There was a stiffness to his posture, a quiet uncertainty. Still now he seemed to be in constant battle with the idea that this partnership of three was strange and wrong, and that at any moment it might be revealed to be a cruel ruse, and everything would come tumbling down. Reaching out beneath the warm covers she found his bare shoulder, a cascade of soft hair draped across it, and trailing her hand down his arm she linked her fingers with his, their hands coming to rest in the centre of Thomas’s broad chest. She hoped that he might feel in her grasp the truth that she was willing him to believe: _it is the world that is wrong, not us._

There were times, though she had many dear friends and many more fond acquaintances, that she wished her life might be reduced down to just moments such as this. Just the three of them together, no world beyond the four walls of this house, safe from prying eyes and wagging tongues and those who would see in what they shared something immoral or corrupt. She wished to be able to hide from the world, wrapping her beloveds in her arms and never letting go; but there was also a fierce voice within her, simmering and barely contained, that wanted to stand on high, shouting until her throat was aching and raw, proclaiming to anyone who would dare to call what they had unholy that they were mistaken, so utterly and completely. The three of them together were made so much greater than the sum of their parts, happy and strong and sacrosanct, and a world which could not see the good in that was broken and blind. She still felt the ever-present gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach, but it felt so much smaller when she was not on the outside keeping watch alone.

Thomas spoke, breaking her from her reverie, and though his voice was soft it reverberated in his chest below her ear. “James and I were just having an argument. Perhaps you might care to cast a deciding vote.”

She felt a gentle huff of breath on her face as James laughed, once more relaxed, and said, “It was a debate, not an argument.”

“As you say, my dear,” Thomas said. “We were _debating_ whether or not it would be feasible to fund and oversee the education of a handful of underprivileged young people, perhaps a dozen or so to begin with, from school age right up until adulthood. Even as far as university, should they show prodigious enough talent and the inclination. The Lieutenant here feels duty bound to inform me that I have, as per usual, unrealistic expectations regarding the likelihood of a successful outcome of such an endeavour, and that, how did you put it, James? Oh yes, I live my life with my head in the clouds, wearing a blissful smile, and imagine that all the world is a field of potential, awaiting only my cheerful instruction to bloom.”

At this James laughed, turning his face down towards Thomas’s shoulder and pressing his mouth to his skin. Miranda smiled, squeezing his hand where it still lay linked with her own on Thomas’s chest.

“ _I_ believe, however,” Thomas continued, winding his fingers into James’s hair and stroking through it, “that the Lieutenant is unduly pessimistic and forgetful of his own voracious appetite for learning and personal betterment, which you will agree he has been most keen to display, and which could only have been greatly aided by such attentions as a child.”

“I don’t forget,” James said, settling his head more comfortably against Thomas’s shoulder once again, “and I quite agree with the latter, however I hope you will forgive what sounds like hubris when I say that most children are not as I was. I think that if you truly felt compelled to engage in such an endeavour, then patronage of a school or the establishment of a fund for one or two scholarships per year would be the proper course.”

“But one or two is such a small number when there are so many who could benefit, and I would far rather have a direct hand in their selection and education. To be in a position to shape young minds, James! To engage with them and converse on matters as they learned and grew; what a wonderful privilege that would be!” Thomas said, and Miranda smiled as she felt his arm moving at her back, gesticulating in the dark in the way that he did when he became truly enamoured with an idea and so desperate for others to share in his enthusiasm.

“Were I not what I am,” he added, “I should very much have liked to have been a professor or a tutor of some sort.”

“A most noble pursuit,” James said, “but I think you simultaneously underestimate just how… _coarse_ such young people might be and overestimate their hypothetical dedication to education for its own sake.”

“You make it sound as though the world were full of incorrigible ruffians who revel in their illiteracy and would pretend to give me their ears only as a distraction whilst their friends robbed me of my purse,” Thomas said.

“I think that’s exactly what they would do,” said James, and Miranda laughed.

Thomas heaved an exasperated sigh. “Oh, James, please. You’re so tiresomely cynical sometimes,” he said.

“And you’re so delightfully naïve,” James replied, tracing a fingertip across Thomas’s chest, Miranda’s hand still entwined with his.

“Miranda?” Thomas said, turning his head towards her, though he would not be able to see her expression in the low light. “What are your thoughts on this? I know you’ll have many.”

“I think that, at the very least, you are both right about one another,” she said.

“How diplomatic,” said James. 

“Indeed,” she said. “I suspect the truth would lie somewhere in between what you both imagine, should this hypothetical group of a dozen poor students be made reality. Such an environment would never be the perfect Aristotelian haven of learning and philosophical enquiry that I know is what you envisage, Thomas,” and at that Thomas tutted, but otherwise remained silent, and Miranda continued, “but neither would it be a circus comprised of wild beasts masquerading as children, James. I do think that funding for scholarships would be the best course, though I don’t imagine it would offer nearly as much interaction as you might like. Perhaps, if you found a headmaster sympathetic enough to your vision, you might be able to extend invitations to something like your salons, every once in a while?”

“I suppose that might work,” Thomas said, though he sounded somewhat deflated.

“I’m rather afraid we’ve managed to outnumber you with pragmatists, my love, by making James a part of our little ménage,” Miranda said sympathetically, and she felt James’s fingers twitch at her choice of words, though he said nothing.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said, “though I think James is rather less of a pragmatist and more of a romantic than even he would admit.”

“Is that so?” said James with a laugh.

“Are you not the man who ordered my father out of his own house because he had the audacity to disagree with my plans, just as we both knew he would? Those same plans that you yourself disagreed with not hours before?” Thomas said, and Miranda knew without seeing that he was wearing the same proud and disbelieving smile that he had on the night of said expulsion.

James groaned, turning his face once more into Thomas’s shoulder. “Please don’t remind me of that,” he said, voice muffled, “I might break into a cold sweat just thinking about it.”

“But you were truly marvellous, leaping to my defence as you did! One might even go so far as to call it dashing and heroic,” Thomas said, and Miranda could hear the poorly suppressed laughter in his voice. “It was fortunate I was already sitting down, or else I might have needed some assistance to recover from your gallantry.”

James squirmed harder. “You are painfully absurd,” he whined. “Please let’s talk about something else. You must have more to say about your plans to rescue every illiterate waif and stray in London.”

“Oh, much more, but this is far better fun,” Thomas said, but he seemed unable to help himself from adding, “Although why would I limit my plans to London? What about the rest of the country?” and judging by James’s snort of unsurprised amusement, that was exactly the response he had been fishing for.

As Thomas and James continued to talk, their low voices bickering and teasing, Miranda closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She wanted to remember every detail of this moment for the rest of her life; she wanted to etch into her memory all of the minutiae that combined to fill her with such a blissful contentedness. The rhythmic thrum of Thomas’s heart below her ear, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took, was more comforting than she thought anything else in the world could be. His hand was stroking small circles against her back through her nightgown, and this simple caress felt more intimate than any lover’s touch ever could. And then there was James. Their James. His hand in hers was wide and warm, the skin just a little rough, and she could feel the soft hairs under her thumb as she stroked across his knuckles. Whenever Thomas made him laugh, she felt his breath against her face, stirring her hair just a little, and it would have been beyond her power to stop herself from smiling even had she wanted to. In this moment there was no isolation, not even the quietest whisper of jealousy; there was just the three of them together, happy and in love and hidden from the world by the shrouding dark.

 

***

When Miranda awoke with a start, the blankets stifling and heavy, it took several long moments for the fog of sleep to dissipate and the memory of where she was to come back to her. She had been dreaming of a time long past, one of many well-thumbed memories which were all the more vivid when they came to her in dreams. It was in these dreams where she could see Thomas’s face once more; touch him, hear him, sometimes even smell him. Such dreams were often many long months apart nowadays, try as she might to induce them more often, and though they were precious to her they came at a cost. The joy of knowing that she could still remember Thomas so clearly, when she had begun to worry that the details were fading, was tied irrevocably to the dull ache of grief that came with waking up to find herself in a house in which he had never set foot, on an island of which he had only dreamt.

She pushed the covers off to the side, searching for a draft of cool air to soothe the prickling heat radiating from her skin. Some nights she longed for the sort of cold that she had known in winters in London; the sort where half a dozen thick blankets couldn’t shut out the reaching fingers of the icy chill that crept in through the windows, leaving fern frost in its wake. The hot sun was still far below the horizon, the sky outside her window black as pitch, but she felt wide awake. James had returned home late the previous evening, when she was already in bed, after several long weeks at sea. She had heard him close the front door quietly, slip off his boots, and pad towards the guest bedroom in the darkness. It was becoming a habit of his to sleep in the other bed when he arrived home after dark. Or perhaps he arrived home after dark so that he could more easily excuse sleeping in the other bed; she had not cared to think too hard on the distinction. Though she understood his need for space, and the discomfort he still often found in occupying a role which too closely resembled that of ‘husband’, she could not help the flood of bitterness that washed over her every time she heard that other bedroom door close. Whatever roles they now occupied for one another, they could not afford to drift further apart. They were each the other’s last true anchor in this roiling storm they now called their lives; untethered and alone they could not hope to avoid being dashed upon the rocks.

Slipping from her bed, she made her way out into the hall and across to the adjacent door, reaching fingers stretched out in front of her to feel her way in the dark. The cool floor was a blessed relief on the tight, hot skin of her feet, and she pulled her hair across one shoulder, willing the air to chill her sweat-damp neck. She lay her hands against the door gently and pressed her ear to it, holding her breath as she listened. It was very quiet, but she thought that she could hear beyond the threshold the gentle rustle of pages being turned and bed sheets being moved, and so she knocked.

James’s voice replied, “Come in,” and she pushed the door open, peering around it to see him sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard, with a candle lit beside him and a book in hand.

"Hello," he murmured, closing the book around his finger.

"May I join you?" Miranda asked.

"Of course. Always," he replied, and there was a genuine warmth to his voice that reassured her that, on this occasion at least, he really had confined himself to this room for no reason other than a desire not to disturb her sleep.

Pushing the door to behind her, Miranda crossed over to the bed, climbing on and situating herself close to James's side, her head on the spare pillow. The sheets were crisp and cool beneath her, and she twisted the cloth around her feet and slid a hand beneath the pillow, suppressing a small shiver as they soothed her hot skin. James had put his book on the bedside table before turning back and lying down so that he was facing her, their noses barely more than half a foot apart, and he reached out to lace his fingers with those of her free hand. His hair was loose, tucked behind his ear and splayed across the pillow, and in the light of the candle it glowed like copper, still every bit as bright as it had been when she had first met him.

“Hello,” he said again.

Miranda smiled. “Hello. What were you reading?”

“Milton,” James said. “Though I’ve never been quite sure whether I actually enjoy his writing. One feels somewhat obliged to appreciate it, or risk appearing a philistine.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled and, though the low light cast deep shadows in the creases, he looked for a moment younger than his years, and far softer than the man called Flint who had been carved into sharp edges and short fuses by nigh on ten years of life in this place. He was always soft with her, really, and Miranda knew that she had not truly seen the face of Captain Flint, for she so rarely saw him with any of his men – with the exception of Mr Gates, though he was almost soft James with him too – but it warmed her all the same to see this side of him and know that James McGraw was still alive and well.

“Thomas greatly admired the power of Milton’s poetry,” she said, and she watched James's face carefully to gauge his reaction. There was a subtle twitch that pinched between his eyebrows, as it so often did when she mentioned Thomas unexpectedly, but his expression remained otherwise easy and open. Sometimes, when James was in a particularly warm and gentle mood, she could even coax his name from him.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Thomas could admire almost anything or anyone, given enough time to find a single good quality within them,” he said, and Miranda couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Thomas’s name on James’s lips. Even now he spoke it with a quiet sort of reverence.

“That’s quite true,” she said. “His optimism was boundless. I dreamt of him just now, you know.”

"Yes?" James said.

"Mm. I dreamt of that morning when we were all together in his bed and he was arguing for finding a way to personally educate every waif and stray in England. Do you remember?" she said, and James broke into a fond smile.

"I’d forgotten," he said, “but I remember now. He really did imagine that he could change the whole world singlehandedly, piece by piece. I’m almost surprised he didn’t try to hold special salons for the servants, their families, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry he could persuade to come in from the street.”

"Oh, I’m fairly sure he mooted similar ideas on more than one occasion. Although, speaking of servants' families…wait," Miranda said, pausing suddenly, "I’ve told you before about George Alford’s scholarship, haven’t I?"

James frowned and shook his head. "I don't think so. Who’s George Alford?"

Miranda laughed, rolling her head to look up at the ceiling in wide-eyed disbelief and then turning back to James. "I can’t believe I never thought to tell you about him. I suppose the topic of the scholarships never arose again. Those three months that you were here, Thomas set about finding a school with a headmaster willing to oblige him, and transferred what was supposed to be the first of many donations. A rather large sum, if I recall correctly. It was offered in trust under the provision that the name of the donor not be made public knowledge. He was worried that his father might attempt to step in to ensure that his money not be frittered away, as he would see it, on another one of Thomas’s frivolous philanthropic projects."

James hummed in response, and said, “A wise decision, I suspect.”

“Yes, quite,” said Miranda. “I think the project made for a pleasant diversion while you were away; there was little progress to be made in the case for the pardons before you returned and so he found himself at something of a loose end. Also, he was taking advantage of the fact that with you being otherwise engaged you weren’t able to attempt to talk him out of it again or convince him to further downsize his plans.”

“I wouldn’t have tried that hard,” James said, looking slightly abashed.

“I know,” Miranda reassured, squeezing his fingers, “and so did he. I think he was planning on telling you he’d gone ahead and set it in motion so that you could roll your eyes and play the cynic and he could laugh and act the gleeful victor. He enjoyed those back and forths. They were always half a performance. You remember the routine.”

“I do,” James said softly. “But you still haven’t told me who this George is.”

“George was the first student he chose,” Miranda said. “He really was very eager to have something to show off when you returned. Do you remember I used to receive letters occasionally from a former servant, Sarah? She was the one who…she mentioned the Maria Aleyne.”

Miranda faltered slightly and then paused, waiting for James’s reaction. ‘Maria Aleyne’ was another name with enough weight and implication to have the potential to sour his mood if brought up carelessly.

“I remember,” said James, and this time it was he who squeezed her fingers; a self-aware acknowledgement, and a reassurance that she ought to go on.

“George was her nephew. He was around ten at the time, if I recall correctly,” Miranda said. “I don’t often hear from London acquaintances these days – well, not that I ever did - but I received a letter from Sarah a week or so ago now, which I suppose is why that conversation was on my mind and in my dreams. She wrote to tell me that George was recently accepted to study at Oxford. A glover’s son, studying at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. Can you imagine? Thomas would have been so pleased,” Miranda said.

James smiled at her. “He would,” he said. “What a wonderful thing.”

“Even now he’s a force for good,” Miranda said quietly, and she felt suddenly slightly breathless on the edge of so many memories and the renewed realisation of everything they had lost with Thomas. 

James said nothing in reply and a silence stretched out between them, not quite uncomfortable, but heavy, and Miranda had to look away from his eyes, studying instead their still entwined fingers. Choosing action over words, James removed his hand from hers and pulled her towards him, rolling onto his back and hooking an arm around her as she rested her head on his shoulder. His skin was warm beneath her cheek and she could hear his heart thumping steadily where her ear was pressed against him. The touch of his hand at the small of her back, stroking in light circles, was comfortingly familiar, but she felt her throat constrict just a little at the off kilter feeling of almost déjà vu. The echoes of the sensations in her dream still lingered in her mind, and James’s hand did not feel quite the same as Thomas’s had. It was hotter and broader and less sure of its welcome. Still, it _was_ welcome, and Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and breathed deeply, smelling and listening and feeling everything, committing it all to memory. She had every part of him memorised already, of course, after such a long time spent in one another’s company; the smell of his hair, the softness of his beard, the patterns of his freckles, the speed of his pulse (slower than Thomas’s), and each and every scar he had collected under the name of Flint. It was worth taking the time to memorise them all over again though, just in case one day she might have to rely on her dreams alone to remember him by too. A melancholy train of thought for another time, however, she decided. For now she was content to lie with her James, Thomas’s James, _their James_ , and to pretend that they had a little more time to hide away together before yet another day dawned under a hot and foreign sun.  


End file.
